Page 112 of Torch Songs

“The actual fuck,” he said, numb. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“I gotta die,” Butch cackled. “You don’t get to be happy!”

Guthrie blinked. “You think you’re going to keep me from being happy if you wreck my phone, old man?” he asked.

“Won’t be able to talk to all your fancy friends that way,” Butch said smugly. “You’regonna be—” He coughed, wetly and laden with blood. “—all alone.”

Guthrie could only laugh. “That’s it?” he asked. “That’s your plan? I’ve got twelve other options for contacting my boyfriend, Butch. I’ve got ten other people I can call for help. I… I have alife,old man.” Suddenly, the secret things he hadn’t talked to his father about—although Jock knew them now—came spilling out of him. “I got into a bar fight, and three policemen came to bail me out. You heard that. One of them was my boyfriend, but the other two werefriends. You can’t wreck that by destroying my phone. Nosirree. You’re gonna die, and I’m not going to your funeral. Jock might go—you’ll have to ask him. But I’m out of here, old man. I’m going to the city to make money with Fiddler. You heard that right too. He don’t want you. I was his friend, and he remembers that, but you? You were some redneck who made money off him, and he remembers that too. I’m going to the hills to a family that wants me. Do you know what I did when I was gone? Do you have any idea?”

“Got your knob waxed?” Butch muttered, because that was the extent of his imagination.

“I played for a wedding,” Guthrie said, the moment lighting him up inside. “Two men—a sheriff and a principal—walked down the aisle, and their kids were there, and their friendsand their entire town applauded, so damned happy to see them together. And then my friend went into labor, and she wanted me in there with her, along with her husband. Can you imagine that? I go from watching your dying, rotting, decomposing animated corpse to….” His voice softened, because he couldn’t say this with an edge. “To watching the birth of a baby who is so wanted. So loved. Socherished. And I’m asked to be a part of the baby’s life. To be an uncle. To be a brother and a friend. I’ve got all thatbeautyinside me, old man, and you think you’re going to destroy that with aphone? You watch your television shows. I’m gonna go buy myself a new goddamned phone.”

Guthrie stalked out, leaving Butch with the remote control as he took his tray to the kitchen. After cleaning off the tray and putting everything away, he threw some beef and some tomato stock into Jock’s Crock-Pot so they could have dinner later that night, and then emerged into the blessedly cool day to turn his face to the sun.

“Good speech,” Jock said, walking out of the carport with a bottle of water in his hand. One of the things Guthrie had noticed in the last five weeks was that Jock drank more water and less beer the closer Butch got to the grave. All the activity had leaned him up a little, and his jowls and lines had eased some. He looked like a hale man in his forties now, and not a would-be alcoholic aging before his time.

Every now and then his girlfriend brought them dinner. Guthrie talked to her sometimes, but mostly he let her and Jock have some time alone. It was good to see Jock had a life he was working toward. Made Guthrie proud.

“You know the only problem with it,” he muttered glumly.

“No money for a phone,” Jock said with a grimace.

Guthrie put his finger on his nose. “Bingo.” He’d been eking out the last of his money to pay for gas and groceries since the wedding. He’d been reluctant to tell Tad—movingwas expensive, and one good late-night talk was not going to completely erase Guthrie’s ethics on taking a handout. Five days. Five days until he signed that contract. Five days. The hotel was paid for, Seth had assured him. All he had to do was be there, on time, with his guitar. “It’s fine. I’ve got my computer—email’s a thing. Just….” He shook his head, thinking about the meanness of Butch’s act, one of his last on this earth.

“Inconvenient,” Jock said with a sigh. “I hear ya. You got any of those numbers memorized?”

Guthrie shrugged. “The top five, yeah. After the old asshole goes to bed, I’ll fish the phone out of the recliner and see if the SIM card can be salvaged. That’ll be a big help right there.”

“Yeah,” Jock said softly. “Sorry about that. God, Guthrie. I keep remembering how I looked up to my brother, and now I can’t wait for him to die. How awful is that?”

Guthrie sighed. “Just remember he did that to himself. You been… been shaking off his shadow these last weeks, Jock. You keep doing that. The man in the sunlight’s a good guy.”

Jock nodded thoughtfully. “Good to hear,” he said. “Kind of you to say. Look—I’m weedwacking that back quarter. You take over that for me, and I’ll take over the whole bath thing for you. You’re using your time to get all this shit off your chest. It’s time for me and Butch to have our own words.” He paused and took a swig of water. “You may not want to listen in on the baby monitor,” he said apologetically. “My language is gonna be down at his level, and that’s not something I want you to hear.”

Guthrie smiled at him fondly. “Appreciate it,” he said, turning his face toward the place in the overcast sky where the sun was hiding. Finally he leveled his gaze to Jock. “You got gloves?”

“In the carport by the Weedwacker,” Jock said. “And I appreciate it back. This place’ll be almost shipshape in a week. You’ll be leaving me in a real good place.”

Guthrie shrugged. “Yeah, well, we’re kin.”

THE NEXTevening, Guthrie was sitting in the living room next to Butch, working on his computer and pretty much ignoring the old man as he mumbled at the TV, when suddenly Butch said, “You fuckin’ puke. Not even gonna listen to me when I’m dying?”

Guthrie shut his computer and set it very carefully on the end table far away from the old man—he knew what his venom would do now.

“You got something to say to me?” Guthrie asked, steeling himself for the worst.

“You’d better come to my funeral,” Butch muttered.

“Nope.”

“I’ve earned it!” Butch whined, tears sliding down his face.

Guthrie turned toward him. “You earned a coffee can full of ashes in a pauper’s grave. And either way, you are not my problem once you’re gone. Don’t you get it? I’m only here for Jock. You… you forfeited any right to me being sad when you’re dead by being an awful human being when you were alive. Can’t fix it now.”

“Who’s gonna sing over my grave?” Butch asked, sounding legitimately worried.

Guthrie shrugged. “Maybe Jock’ll find a reverend or someone. Not my worry.”

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